Monday, June 29, 2009

OK, I'll admit it. I'm kinda pissed that Farrah Fawcett's death got completely pushed to the back burner thanks to what's-his-name. But my anger pales in comparison to Farrah's:

Michael Jackson moved me, all right -- all the way to page 10D!

Ten fucking D!

You know what? Someone up there -- I mean, someone up here -- must really hate my fucking guts. Ever since "Charlie's Angels," I have struggled to be paid the goddamn respect I deserve. Do you think it's easy propping up the lust of an entire generation with only a one-piece swimsuit and professionally feathered hair? IT IS NOT.

This should make you all feel better about Farah: "Farrah Fawcett arrived at the Pearly Gates and God asked her what he could do for her having led such an honest life. Farrah asked God to simply make sure the children of the world were safe. Five minutes later, Michael Jackson died."

Reminds me of when Mother Teresa died after living what some might call an extraordinary life. A few hours later, that little trollop Diana - who never really did anything in her life - kicks the bucket and WHAM, the whole solar system comes grinding to a halt for the next 12 months. We really are obsessed with celebretards, aren't we?